5 Times Sherlock Chose Work Over John
by MousyNona
Summary: ...and the one time he didn't. John is not chuffed at Sherlock's life choices. Until the end, at least. Written in chronological order, from moments after A Study in Pink to Reichenbach Falls.
1. Chapter 1

**5 Times Sherlock Chose Work Over John, and the 1 Time He Didn't**

**Pairing**: John/Sherlock  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13?  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Is the baby-creation of Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, and others. Those fantastic trollers that we all know and love!

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><p>221b Baker Street, London.<p>

2:46 PM

Directly after A Study in Pink

Sherlock is a busy man. Even when he's not technically "working", he's busy. It's how he keeps himself sane, really. And John disrupting his method isn't exactly helping.

"…never get the stains off the walls."

Oh, had John been talking to him? What had he been saying?

Sherlock ran through the contents of his frontal lobe and located the previous conversation without much trouble. Ah, so he was concerned with the experiment?

"Experiment, John."

He heard an exasperated sigh. It was so _John_ in every way, from the huff of breath to the petulant line Sherlock knew John's lips were setting in that Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

Until John opened his mouth again.

"Either _that _goes – " Here John motioned to the scattered remains of what had once been _Procyon Lotor – _or in layman's terms, a raccoon. He supposed it could also be accurately termed road kill, by this point.

But John didn't seem to know any of that. So Sherlock threw out a small correction, being careful to relay it in layman's terms, seeing as John didn't appreciate scientific names. He'd learned _that _the hard way from the pigeon.

"Raccoon."

"Right, raccoon then." John shook his head in a Sherlock-it-really-doesn't-matter sort of way. He could be very eloquent with his head shakes. Sherlock believed it could be a recognized sort of talent. He would have to look it up later.

"You aren't even listening to me, are you." John sounded almost grimly amused.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you haven't even looked up once from whatever you're doing," he put out a hand out before Sherlock could open his mouth. "No, stop, I really don't want to know. Really. But since I don't much fancy living in the same room as that – raccoon – I want you to take it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't even deign to dignify that with a reaction. The raccoon was an extremely important part of his experiment concerning the pressure needed for flesh to attain the exact amount of density in a compact area. One never knew when they might need such information next.

Plus it was keeping him away from the gun. Really, when he got his hands on that gun, he had no control over himself. Sometimes it was the wall, other times it was the door, and once it had been himself. No, the density of a certain _Procyon Lotor_ was doing him rather a lot of good.

John huffed. "Well, either _that _can leave, or I will. It bloody stinks in here, Sherlock!"

"I hear the bar two blocks from here has a happy hour that begins in fourteen minutes." Sherlock answered.

John threw his hands up into the air and went stomping out of the room, muttering things like "insensitive bastard" and "goddamn nightmare" all the way down the stairs. Sherlock counted down from five…

And by the time he hit one, John shouted from downstairs, "Flat better be clean when I come back!" Then he was gone, although judging from the volume in his door slam he had taken his jacket, phone, enough quids for a couple pints and would be back in approximately four hours.

So not too angry then.

Sherlock turned his attention back to more important things, like the dead raccoon he was so carefully stamping with different metal weights.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pairing**: Eventual Sherlock/John

**Disclaimer**: Property of BBC, Moffat, and Gatiss.

**Rating**: PG-13 for swearing, and mentions of a certain army doctor's bad days.

**AN**: I'm not familiar with the architecture of 221b, so apologies for any topographical mistakes.

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><p>The Hallway of 221a, b, and c Baker Street<p>

8:29 PM

1 Month after the Blind Baker case and 6 Weeks after the Raccoon Incident

Honestly, John should stop being surprised by now. It would make his own life a lot simpler and less emotional if he could just stop wanting to throw something at Sherlock and his stupid dramatic flairs every time he left John behind.

But the world didn't work that way. _John_ didn't work that way. So there he was, fuming in the middle of the doorway to his flat after walking the entire way back home, which included a two-hour trek through mud and rain and general debris. It didn't take a Holmes to figure out it had been a bad day for John. A very, very bad day.

Which also meant bad news for a certain Sherlock Holmes. Who was currently in the middle of repapering the walls of their flat with possible life-saving information or inconsequential gibberish. John knew it was either one or the other, because there was never any middle ground for Sherlock.

"Sherlock." John had to force his voice into a volume range that might be considered relatively calm. Sherlock didn't even turn around.

"Sherlock." This time he couldn't quite keep all the murderous intent out of his voice.

"Busy!" Sherlock yelled as he breezed past John to grab yet another stack of papers that were lying beside his feet. John didn't even need to think.

He placed one foot on top of the stack and pressed firmly down before Sherlock could whirl off with it (noting with satisfaction the nice, muddy footprint it made). Sherlock immediately leveled him with his most intimidating stare, completely outraged. John met his gaze with equal heat.

"Your _foot_, John." Irritation at being forced into verbally communicating his displeasure only piled onto his outrage, and Sherlock quite felt he would very much like to throw John down the stairs. He made it plain exactly how gladly he would do just that in his expression, and a little thrill ran through John.

His anger pushed it aside. "What about it?" He fired back.

"Get it off." Oh, Sherlock was just seconds away from a full-on sulk now - John could see it in the way Sherlock narrowed his eyes. If he had been slightly less angry, he might have cared, seeing as Sherlock's sulks often led to untold amounts of funds being spent on household reparations. But John's clothes were still sticking to his skin in a decidedly uncomfortable way and the water was dripping from his hair and down his back in chilly rivulets. It didn't help that he caught the slight way Sherlock wrinkled his nose and tried to nudge the papers away from the water droplets.

So John's only response was to shift into a position where his weight was concentrated on his right foot and tilt his head accidentally-on-purpose so most of the drops would fall on the pages.

Sherlock gaped in horror. "Your current behavior is completely childish and beneath you."

"Oh, of all the - " John despaired of a universe where Sherlock Holmes could call anyone else childish. Even if he had completely earned it. "Look you complete _git_, it couldn't be too hard to just wait for a second. I had to walk for two hours! In the pouring rain!"

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear." Sherlock apparently lost what little restraint he had for the conversation and maneuvered himself so he was effectively crowding John back out the door, and off his papers. "Ms. Hudson will have a fit if you continue dripping indoors, however, so it is advisable you stay in the hallway." He continued, scooping up the damp stack and turning so he had one hand on the door. "Besides, you don't seem fit to be around sensitive information in your current mood."

John managed to a final glimpse of Sherlock giving the papers a rueful look before the door slammed shut in his face. He stood in shock for approximately two seconds, which was all the time Sherlock needed to slide the lock securely in place and move away from the door.

"Sherlock!" John was all but screeching. No, he _was_ screeching, and frankly he really didn't care by this point. He was cold, tired, and he wanted _inside_, where there were good things like tea and baths and dry jumpers. Things that made the world a nice place to live in.

And right now Sherlock Holmes was cutting him off from it. He started banging on the door, all dignity forgotten. His only reply was the distant screeching of a violin.

Oh, so apparently he had reached a Mycroft-level of annoyance. Fantastic.

John gave up on annoying Sherlock into opening the door, and reached inside of his jacket pocket for his phone instead. He composed a very short text message, something went along the lines of "open the door this very minute or you'll understand precisely what I learned in the army." It took him a minute to type out, but he eventually got it done after only one accidental delete and pressed send.

A second later, he felt something vibrate in his other pocket. Groaning, he slipped his hand inside and came out with Sherlock's Blackberry. His own text message blinked at him from the screen.

"Fuck." John gave the door a final despairing glance before giving up and heading towards 221a. Ms. Hudson would probably be more accommodating - accommodating being synonymous with a hot kettle of tea. And maybe a blanket. He could kill for one about now. Or break a certain door in, but he tried not to think about that. It was far too tempting than it strictly should have been, especially since he knew the proper way to do it, and thinking about it would only make him want to do it more.

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><p>From inside the flat, Sherlock turned off the recording John had made of him playing the violin during one of his "sulks". He'd claimed that one day he'd play it back and show Sherlock how absolutely ridiculous he could be sometimes. The situation now was proving to be exceedingly ironic.<p>

The sound of distant clinking from next door told Sherlock that his flatmate had retreated for the time being, and there was absolutely no chance that he would break down the door. He hadn't expected it of John in the first place, but John had a _temper_. One Sherlock occasionally forgot existed when he was in the throes of cerebral excitement.

He sighed and slapped on another patch. Now that the drama was over - Sherlock had printed out another copy of the ruined pages in a whirl of righteous fury, so all the evidence was accounted for - he could relax, and focus. It wasn't hard. The case this time was absolutely _fascinating_.

Sherlock turned his attention to more important things, like the dead body that had supposedly materialized from the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: BBC Sherlock doesn't, and will never, belong to me.

**AN**: Okay, so this chapter has a **lot** of angst. Forgive me! I had no choice - it's the Great Game episode, the angst was there and I had to write it. Next week it'll return to lots of fluffers and John-kittens and a lot more Johnlock. Just bear with this one.

**AN2**: Oh yes, and it's not beta'd, brit-picked, and because it was written in a hurry, edited only the barest minimum.

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><p>Locations: 221B, Baker Street, An Anonymous Alleyway and Building, A Swimming Pool in London<p>

5:21 PM

During the Great Game

John is sick. Almost incredibly so.

Considering how Sherlock drags him to the most inane and physically draining environments at a moment's notice and without regard for boringly normal things like _weather_, the flu really doesn't come as a surprise. To John, anyway. He hasn't seen Sherlock all day, so unless the madman in question has been improving his mindreading to work over long distances, Sherlock doesn't have a clue what's going on in 221c.

He supposes it's his own fault. Any sane person wouldn't dare step in Dulwich in the middle of February, and it wasn't like John had made a big deal about staying home. He should have, he's a bloody _doctor. _It's his job to warn against the perils of venturing out in the freezing cold with only a thin coat over your jumper.

But then again he is John Watson first, and doctor second. It stands to reason that he'd follow Sherlock first and deal with his stupidity afterwards, when he's lying ill with fever. Plus he still feels a bit guilty about the ruining of papers incident (he still didn't know what had come over him), so he isn't particularly in bringing up any more weather related complaints. Besides, it wasn't like Sherlock had changed because of it – his only reaction had been a tremendous post-case sulk that had only ended after John had unwittingly pointed out a vital clue during the Dulwich fiasco. Afterwards, Sherlock apparently decided John had redeemed his worth and promptly took him out to a celebratory dinner. And it was not a _date_.

John really didn't want a repeat of that entire ordeal, and all the more since he doubted another case involving the price of milk would come to patch things up again. So John resolutely bundled himself up and breathed not a word to the invisible Sherlock.

Then he remembers he has a shift at surgery in an hour.

He groans, rubbing his hands up and down his face and entertains the idea of ditching for exactly as long as he could stand the sharp stab that seared his brain at every coherent thought.

Besides, he'd missed his last shift following Sherlock to Dulwich (he privately referred to it as Mystery of the Spilled Milk) and hadn't bothered to call. She'd been far less understanding about the whole 'I'm-living-with-a-madman-so-please-cut-me-some-slack' excuse after said reason had become the cause for their breakup. And a swift verbal kick in the arse.

It's a close thing, but knowing ditching would end with a very cold Sarah telling him that he needn't come back tipped the scale in responsibility's favor and he rolled out of bed with a groan.

A rejuvenating cup of tea and a handful of painkillers later, John stumbles out the door, hood of his jacket secured firmly around his face. It means shit for his peripheral vision, but considering it was a snowy day in London and the odds of freezing to death were significantly higher than getting mugged he decides he'd take a chance.

Still, his army-induced paranoia tugs at the edges of his consciousness and by the time he passes Speedy's it's gone past "vaguely annoying" levels to somewhere near "full-on trust issues". It's by sheer force of will that he shakes it off.

He doesn't make it to the next block before something is slammed against his mouth and an arm drags him into an alley. He tries to get a good grip on his attacker, but the world slips and turns and he can't even feel his hands, let alone dislodge a very heavy man.

As darkness falls, John looks at the sky and for a wild, delusional second thinks Sherlock is watching him.

And a fierce warmth surges through his chest, unchecked by his consciousness as he drops.

John is still sick when he wakes up, and at first that's all the explanation needed as to why the world is shifting at the edges. That is, until he remembers and the dark shape in front of him suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"Moriarty." He manages to croak out. His tongue is hard to swallow because of the drug.

"Johnny-boy. How good of you to join us." Moriarty smiles and it's chilling. But John has met and done plenty of other chilling things and he'd be damned if he let one get the better of him.

So John straightens his back (or as much as he can in his drugged state) and meets Moriarty's gaze head-on. Moriarty's smile changes into something condescending and slightly mocking, although he doesn't move an inch.

"There, that's the spirit." He nods to someone behind John and almost immediately he hears two slight clicks from behind him. The sound of it echoes around the room. John knows one thing, and only one, that could sound like that.

His shoulder twinges in a painful way.

"Up we go, John!" Moriarty almost sings. He's turned his back to John by now, sauntering away from him and the man behind him in obvious impatience. "Hurry up! It's nearly time!"

A solid barrel nudges at his spine, and at its prodding John manages to stumble out of his chair, still dazed, tightly-handcuffed, but mobile. Good. It would be insult on injury if he'd had to be _carried_ out.

"No, no, not that way." Moriarty pivots around but doesn't stop moving backwards, conducting the man behind John's movements with a free hand. "To the left, Sebby, to the _left._"

The gun moves from the center of his back to rest firmly on his left shoulder.

"Perfect." Moriarty grins, smile decidedly more reptilian in nature. John doesn't give him the pleasure of a reaction, simply blinks and struggles to maintain his stride. He _would not_ give this man a thing.

Moriarty smirks. It takes most of John's self control not to punch him, handcuffs and all, but he suspects without the drug and the gun (or guns?) he would never have been able to restrain himself.

He wants to get back to Baker Street, 221B and settle down in his chair with a cuppa, maybe some biscuits if his waistline allows it, and update his blog. He wants to apologize to Sarah for missing another shift, because these days narrowly escaping a life-and-death situation didn't cut it as an excuse. He wants to open the fridge and find it full of Sherlock's questionable experiments. He wants to get some crap take-out, watch some crap telly, and listen to Sherlock's crap comments.

But right now he'd settle for just seeing Sherlock again, safe. He has no idea what's going to happen to him, and with every dank hallway John is led through, the little knot of fear in his stomach grows. By the time he is led into a swimming pool (it reminds him of Carl Powers, the only real story he knows about Sherlock's past, he would never forget something like that) and is shunted into a small locker room, the fear is almost overwhelming.

And then it peaks .Moriarty is looking at something his gunman is showing him, and he's laughing. Laughing. He would have bet anything that Sherlock was walking straight into whatever Moriarty had planned, and this time John doesn't have a gun to stop him.

Before Moriarty and "Sebby" leave, Moriarty turns and whispers into John's ear. It's nonsense, but that's a promise. "Sebby" disappears somewhere in the middle of it, John notices, and he might have paid better attention if he wasn't shuddering inwardly at every word Moriarty is saying.

Then Moriarty slips something in his ear and follows the man back outside with a certain spring in his step. It makes John sick.

When he does see Sherlock again, he's furious. Furious, afraid, worried, and sick with a combination of guilt and the flu, but mainly furious at how _stupid_ Sherlock's being. Why walk into a trap when you know it's there?

John doesn't start when he hears Moriarty's gleeful voice in his ear because he was expecting it, but he does allow himself a grimace.

"Now John, it's your turn! Do exactly as I say or there will be _consequences. _Step out now."

He does. And he says what Moriarty wants him to say, careful not to let anything show on his face.

"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sees him then and John can see the horror etched on his eyes. Horror and betrayal.

His chest aches.

"John? What the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming. What would you like me to make him say next? Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' Geer. Gottle o' g – "

"Stop it." Sherlock cuts in, voice as sharp as steel. But in there somewhere, John can detect a little bit of relief. It's barely discernible, but he's been living with Sherlock for months and he can tell.

His chest burns as if it's on fire and he can't let this man die here. So he lunges at Moriarty first chance he gets, as soon as he's turned away to throw Sherlock's peace offering into the pool.

"Oh! Good. Very good." Moriarty exclaims, and John speaks, heart beating in his ears.

"Just like that, Mr. Moriarty. Pull that trigger and we both go up."

The man smells like cologne, sharp dry-cleaning, and a smell he can't quite put a finger on, nor does he want to. But through the medley of smells, he can't find the sharp tang of sweat that always accompanies fear, so John isn't surprised by what Moriarty says next.

"He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get sentimental about their pets. They're so touching and loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha!"

He recoils at the dots that suddenly appear across Sherlock's chest and reluctantly steps away, much to Moriarty's satisfaction.

"Westwood!"

John has never thought he would hear a criminal mastermind sound like an uppity teenage girl, but there you go. It was completely absurd and he would have laughed if there wasn't ten or so guns pointed in his general direction, but right now he can't even find it in him to be amused. He's not quite sure if it's the guns, but he's willing to accept it because it's an explanation that works.

Or so he tells himself every time he looks at Sherlock and his stomach clenches in fear.

The two of them exchange snide remarks and threats, then Moriarty's gone and Sherlock is grabbing at John, shaking him roughly and rattling him senseless to get the damned coat off. Somehow John ends up on the floor and he blames the drugs, although it should have worn off by now. And the flu.

They both wear identical expressions of relief, although they're both a bit scared and more than a little suspicious that it's _not over yet_.

They're talking, he supposes, but it's meaningless banter to shake off the nervousness. Then John looks up at Sherlock and thinks of all the things he could say instead.

He could tell him that the moment he saw Sherlock walk through that door he had stopped worrying about everyone else.

He could say something about how lucky they are, but he's never been any good at sentimental speeches and he has a feeling Sherlock wouldn't appreciate that anyway.

He could say that he loves him, the flashy git. And then he would add that being a flashy git was fine, it was all fine, because he loved that too.

But there's a far more appealing option, and when Sherlock's eyes meet his inquisitively, the words tumble out.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

He thought Sherlock might've smiled. "People do little else."

And then they smile faintly at each other because goddamit, they'd gotten through it again and it feels _good_.

Then Moriarty comes back and the moment's gone. Sherlock doesn't look at him again. He, personally, feels exhausted and worn out, his adrenaline burst leaving him.

When Moriarty's gone for good and the Yard are swarming around, John breathes a sigh of relief and looks at Sherlock to see what he thinks of some tea and a good kip back at 221B, but the words get stuck in his throat when he sees Sherlock's face.

It's a new expression, one John has never seen before, and the only words he can use to describe it are "far away".

_Like a sun,_ John thinks. _Far away and completely passionate at the same time._

He shakes his head at the vaguely poetic thought, wondering if he should be worried that blogging was making him romanticize things a bit too much. Perhaps it was time for a night out with some other blokes, have a pint or two…But not now. He was completely knackered.

"Sherlock?" John ventures, and he's not ignored, not really, because to be ignored the person had to know you were there. Sherlock had shut him out. Completely.

And apparently the rest of the world too while he was at it, leaving John to make a brief sort of statement for Lestrade, turn down his offer to drive them home, and find a passing cab.

Sherlock goes in first like he always does, and when John's finished paying the cabbie he follows him in to find Sherlock draped across the couch, hands covering his face. He leaves him there, because he's gone through enough today to justify sleeping in a week. He'd talk to Sherlock tomorrow.

John doesn't see Sherlock for two weeks.

When Sherlock finally does come back, he's fine, completely back to his old self. John curses himself for going to pieces, promptly deletes all his frantic messages to Lestrade and Mycroft, and proceeds to ignore Sherlock for a week. He doesn't think Sherlock notices.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: Property of BBC, Moffat, and Gatiss.

**AN**: This was an idea that I really liked, and finally had a chance to write about. Feeling successful and productive. (And it's not because I'm sipping Lestrade tea, thanks very much.)

Many thanks to **Nattie Finn **for her input and ideas. The title is much more coherent now.

**Religion - a specific fundamental set of beliefs and practices generally agreed upon by a number of persons or sects.**

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><p>221B Baker Street, The Moping Couch<p>

11:22 AM

A Week Before A Scandal In Belgravia

The next surprise comes when John realizes Sherlock has a religion, albeit not a widely recognized one, although that's not for lack of trying.

"Hang on. You've asked the Vatican to recognize deduction as an official _religion_?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from the screen of John's laptop. "Yes."

The reply is terse, Sherlock hates repeating himself, but John isn't about to let this go just yet. This new piece of information is considerably less shocking than it should be, considering how small John's list of shocking activities has become (the _Sherlock_ section usually encompasses anything that can be considered "strange", "insane", or "socially unacceptable"), but this is still pretty damn out there.

_So this is what Sherlock did during his university years._ John wonders if this is Sherlock's version of testing out freedom for the first time.

"But why?"

"Because deduction can both act as a religion and successfully fulfill the purposes of one." John hears the unspoken _of course_, but has gotten far too used to that kind of thing to be offended. He's too torn between dropping his tea in surprise and letting loose wild, chest-aching bursts of laughter to bother with normal reactions anyway.

In the end he does neither and sets his mug safely on the counter (it's one of the rare, chemical-free ones that Sherlock's off-limits to, and he doesn't much fancy having to buy another one) before continuing the conversation.

"So, did it work?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock's already gone, miles away from this conversation and John takes some time to walk over to his chair and seat himself firmly on it. He's found that with Sherlock, physical proximity often does wonders in reminding him that John's still there, and has questions.

"What did the Vatican have to say about that? You asking them to make deduction a religion."

"I didn't ask them to make it a religion, it _is _a religion, in all sense of the definition. I only asked them to recognize it." Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, and throws a dismissive hand in the air. "They called me a blasphemer, or some such biblical term. I didn't pay attention. How they missed the obvious logic is inexplicable."

John fights the urge to chuckle. Sherlock looks put out at the memory, and the oncoming pout makes the grown man wrapped in a dressing gown seem _adorable._

No, bad train of thought. _Really _bad train of thought. Sherlock might be a lot of things (John could think of quite a lot of colorful terms), but he definitely wasn't adorable. And if it seemed like things have been different after the Pool incident, then that was surely his problem; one he shouldn't involve Sherlock in. But unfortunately for him, living with Sherlock meant giving up certain privileges, like basic privacy.

When he catches Sherlock's curious glance over the top of his laptop, he desperately tries to focus on anything else. Thankfully, something was bothering him about Sherlock's explanation of the Vatican and he desperately switched to that train of thought. It was the laptop that had reminded him – the internet?

Then it clicks in his head.

"So that's why you named your website the Science of Deduction, is it?"

Sherlock is surprised out of his pout. John takes that as a yes. It's hardly mature, Sherlock being petulant enough to name his website something that was sure to piss off the Vatican, but he really can't help the fresh _adorable _that floats across his mind.

"Deduction was always logic-based, and therefore more suitable for science then any sort of religion."

"Yeah, the website would make a piss-poor Bible. It doesn't have all the different prophets."

Sherlock's lip quirks upwards, just a bit. "And what would the masses do without their different guides, I wonder."

"You'd just have to be all of them. Saves everyone else a lot of time." John gives Sherlock a dry look.

"Hm." The response is disinterested, but Sherlock's answering smirk is undeniable. John sits listening to his ceaseless tapping for a little while, then gets up to retrieve his cup of tea after its clear the conversation's over.

"You'd be one too." Sherlock says suddenly, and John stops for a moment on his way to the kitchen.

They share a glance, one of the special ones that never failed to prompt another misunderstanding, but this time John comes out of it a trifle dazed. And maybe a little red.

It's around this time John understands he might be in trouble. He takes a large gulp of tea.

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><p>There are certain things John knows he will never admit to anyone, even certain persons that might already know. One of those things happen to be his feelings for Sherlock, feelings which have somehow stretched beyond his established strange attachment and morphed into something else without his knowledge. Something that makes him want to know what Sherlock tastes like, or if his hair was really as soft as it looked. Things like that.<p>

He tries to keep it as unobtrusive as possible. And it just goes to show how cruel the universe can be that that same week brings a Sherlock dressed only in a sheet (he's worried that he might have actually lost it there, in Buckingham Palace; Mycroft certainly noticed) and Irene Adler. She's beautiful, in an intoxicating, powerful way he supposes - but it's a mark of how far gone he is that he can't take his eyes off Sherlock. Who in turn can't take his eyes off Irene.

He was never the jealous type. No reason to start now, or so he tries to tell himself.

It doesn't stop him from wanting to break the phone everytime another sensual "Ahh" has Sherlock rummaging to find it. He retires for a cup of tea instead, and tries not to feel completely shunted aside.


End file.
